


the shadow in the background of the morgue

by blenderfullasarcasm



Series: Spooktober [4]
Category: Magic Kaito, 名探偵コナン | Detective Conan | Case Closed
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Kuroshitsuji Fusion, Demon Pact, Demons, Don't copy to another site, Gen, Mouth trauma, Spooktober, conan and kid team up, conan's soul looks weird, don't ask me why this happened, kaito is a demon, kid is unintentionally creepy, no beta we die on the hill of poor decisions, no proofreading we yeet our fics into the abyss at 5am like true wariors, thanks akako
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-11-24 06:47:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20903375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blenderfullasarcasm/pseuds/blenderfullasarcasm
Summary: “Then it’s decided. I accept the contract that is as follows: you will help me take down the organization that caused me to shrink, I will help you take down the organization that killed your father and accidentally turned you into a demon, and there will be no exchanging of souls. Agreed?”aka the black pearl heist goes a little differently-----Spooktober Day 4 (Demon Pact // tongue/mouth trauma)





	the shadow in the background of the morgue

Figuring out how KID’s escape route hadn’t been a particularly easy thing to do. Then again, it han’t been particularly  _ difficult _ , either, especially after someone had let it slip that  _ somehow _ KID’s cape could transform into a hang glider, even though that shouldn’t be physically possible. 

Whatever. Conan could figure out how it worked after he caught KID.

And that’s what he’s going to do, if the thief ever bothers to actually  _ show up. _

Ah. Speak of the devil.

The only sign of KID’s arrival is a small displacement of air. There’s no sound of his shoes tapping against the ground as he lands, just a barely discernible change in the atmosphere.

Conan purposely has his back to the point he’d deduced KID would land, fiddling with the fireworks absently, pretending not to notice his entrance. 

He’s only heard rumours about the thief so far, hasn’t actually interacted with him in person yet, but he’s been led to believe that he should e waiting on a quip of some kind.

Except, instead of anything he’d expected, Conan hears a sharp intake of breath, which piques his interest enough that he turns around and ends up face-to-face with KID, who is...alarmingly close.

Conan stumbles back a step, caught off guard.

KID prevents him from overbalancing by clasping one of his arms and pulling him upright. The other gloved hand sneaks its way underneath Conan’s chin, holding his head in place. His grip is firm, annoyingly so. It’s the kind of grip some of Occhan’s clients use on Conan, usually elderly women who are overly cautious about the knickknacks covering their shelves, the  _ let’s see who we have here _ grip they use when they need to evaluate him. KID’s grip is harsher, though, harder, bordering on uncomfortable instead of just irritating. Conan wants to twist his head to remove himself from KID’s grip, but he straightens his spine instead. 

_ He’s _ not going to be the one to move first.

KID stares into his eyes for a long moment, studying Conan, assessing him,  _ searching _ for something. The shadows from the brim of his hat do nothing to hide his face at this distance, so Conan can clearly see every last contour of his face. Conan doesn’t doubt that it’s probably a mask - because according to a brief internet search and a flick through his father’s old files that’s something that KID is known for - but something about KID’s expression makes him think twice about saying so definitively.

It’s hard to tell what color his eyes are, even at this distance, or even his skin color, thanks to the way that the ambient light from the other buildings and the helicopters flying overhead are meshing together with the scant number of shadows still present on the rooftop to completely mess up Conan’s ability to perceive color. His eyes - they could be anywhere from black to brown to blue to purple to red, even if those last couple seem unlikely. Conan can’t cross them off the possibility list, though, given the color’s odd warmish tinge. 

KID’s eyes are still boring into Conan’s soul, and Conan decides  _ screw it _ and meets his gaze directly.

He regrets it almost immediately, but continues staring straight back into KID’s eyes like it’s his last act of defiance.

He can’t move, Conan realizes. It’s like he’s paralyzed by KID’s piercing gaze, like he’s a bug about to be pinned to a corkboard the way that Genta had done last week for a school project. Conan watches KID carefully, feeling increasingly alarmed, as KID looks him up and down, like he’s trying to figure him out. Everything he’d read about KID said that he was  _ nonviolent _ but this is - 

If they think he isn’t dangerous, they’ve never seen his eyes up close.

Belatedly, it occurs to Conan that they probably  _ haven’t _ . KID spends his heist playing keep-away with the police, somehow managing to keep his obnoxious hat in place while doing increasingly improbable acrobatics that would tear a few muscles, if not fracture a few bones, if they’d been done by literally anyone else, probably even an Olympic athlete. No one, not even the Task Force, had ever got close enough for them to see the whites of his eyes, the stiffness in his smile.

Conan may have, perhaps, miscalculated.   
And then - 

_ “How  _ ** _odd_ ** _ .” _

KID’s voice breaks the tense silence easily, like he can’t even feel that it’s there, and he loosens his grasp on Conan’s chin just enough that Conan can yank himself out of KID’s grip. He takes a step back, away from KID, breathing and heart rate quickened slightly.

KID allows it, but his discomfiting stare is still decidedly fixed on Conan. There’s something... _ off _ about him.

Conan shivers, and it’s only partially because of the wind swirling around the rooftop. This had been a  _ bad  _ idea.

_ “Your soul is sixteen, but you look six,”  _ KID drawls, the odd quality to his voice still disconcertingly present, making him seem almost... _ otherworldly _ , if Conan believed in such things. 

After tonight, he may need to reconsider his stance on that.

KID fluidly brings himself to his full height in a movement that shouldn’t be possible unless his spine is actually made of liquid. His eyes still haven’t moved, and when his tongue darts across his lips, wetting them, Conan violently suppresses another shiver. 

_ “You're... _ ** _interesting.” _ ** KID says finally, eyes glinting in the moonlight.  _ “What are you doing up here, boy?” _

Conan tears his eyes away from this unsettling human being, and they land on the fireworks. His initial plan to capture KID suddenly seems woefully inadequate, but he doesn’t have a better one right now so he slips back into his script. 

“F-fireworks!” he squeaks, his voice cracking embarrassingly halfway through, but he figures that’ll help sell the whole  _ what are you talking about I’m only six _ thing.

KID frowns slightly, his mask shifting with the movement. It must be incredibly well-made - there are no cracks in the finish at all.  _ “Fireworks…?” _ he echoes, and Conan takes the chance to strike the match clenched tightly in his fist against his shoe, then drops it onto the fuses.

He’s cut the fuses short, so ten seconds later the fireworks explode, illuminating the rooftop and creating a giant, impossible-to-miss beacon.

Conan turns back to KID, a small, admittedly wavering, smug smile on his face. The helicopters are already closing in on the roof, and the Task Force is spreading out through the building from the street below. There aren’t any other structures near or high enough for KID to glide to. He’s trapped.

Conan would like to see him try to get out of this one.

And then KID  _ laughs. _

Conan’s blood runs cold.

_ “Bravo, bravo.”  _ KID claps his hands together sardonically.  _ “Such a  _ ** _smart_ ** _ little detective.”  _ He reaches into his pocket, and Conan tenses, getting ready to dodge.  _ “But I’m afraid I’ll have to take my leave now.” _

Conan watches in astonishment as KID pulls out a  _ walkie talkie _ , of all things, and proceeds to pitch his voice to sound  _ exactly _ like Nakamori’s, and reports a sighting of KID a block away. Then, he throws in a few other voices of officers (presumably) that Conan doesn’t recognize, since he mainly only interacts with Division 1, all reporting sightings in different locations.

Conan locks his jaw to keep it from dropping open.

KID’s smirks winningly in his direction.  _ “ _ ** _Good night, Tantei-kun_ ** _ ,”  _ he says in English, then he throws down a smoke bomb and disappears from view.

What has he gotten himself into, Conan wonders, as the smoke clears and the only people there are the members of the Task Force who had just burst through the door to the roof.

Conan’s beginning to think that KID...might not be completely human.

“A demon?” Conan asks skeptically. “Seriously?”

KID shrugs. His hat is resting on the rooftop beside him, so Conan can see the moonlight glint off his red, slit-pupiled eyes. “To the best of my understanding, yes.”

It’s after, what, their tenth or so heist? Usually, Conan would be able to give the exact number, but he’s still not sure whether the Kichiemon mansion in the woods debacle really counted as a heist. 

After seven heists, around the same time that Conan had started having what were ostensibly ‘sleep-overs at the professor’s house’ but were really just him going home and sleeping in his own bed for once, KID had started kidnapping him from said bed for rooftop chats.

Conan found he didn’t mind as much as he probably should.

KID wasn’t as disconcerting as before, now that Conan had seen him running through a hallway of swinging knives to prevent Genta from getting killed.

“...How does that even happen?”

KID shrugs again. “Hell if I know,” he says frankly. Conan finds that he’s much more tolerable when he’s not trying to be all mysterious. “I got shot while standing inside some kind of magic circle - there’s a witch in my class and she’s trying to get me to fall in love with her, I think,” he adds at Conan’s skeptical look. “And I was holding a ring that I had... _ obtained _ from a nearby museum - the Phantom’s Sky, it was called. I’ll never forget that, as long as I...well. Not ‘live,’ exactly. I’m not sure what I’m doing now can quite be classified as  _ living _ …” He shakes his head, visibly pulling himself back on track. “Anyway, the short version is that I was standing in a magic circle, then I was shot by one of my more... _ enthusiastic _ fans, and I think some of my blood got on the ring before I blacked out. Then, when I woke up again, I was like this. And I had a new set of memories in my head telling me how to be a demon.”

Conan blinks, once. “That’s. Weird.”

“You’re telling me. You know, I was a normal high school kid up until last year?”

Conan shoots him a look of painfully blatant disbelief.

“I was!” KID says, sounding vaguely insulted.

Doubt.

Conan can see KID ramping up to make a dramatic fuss, so he blurts out the first thing he can think of to prevent that from happening. It’s too early in the morning for that much melodrama. “What do demons even eat?”

“Souls,” KID says nonchalantly.

Conan nearly chokes on his own saliva. “How does  _ that _ work?” he wheezes.

KID shrugs. “Hell if I know. I haven’t felt hungry yet, and I’m kind of hoping I never do. Or, at least, that I die before I start wanting to eat souls. I think that most demons stop caring about anything other than their dinners because of the sheer amount of time they've been alive. I'd imagine it's hard to get attached to anything if a century passes in the blink of an eye. I... don’t want to end up like that.”

Conan blinks slowly, processing. “...There are...other demons?”

KID waves a hand casually. “Sure, sure. Most of them hang out in England for some reason, though. Can’t imagine there’s anything interesting there.”

Conan resolves to stay as far away from England as physically possible.

KID hesitates for a long moment before changing the subject. “I’ve...told you about the purpose behind my heists, haven’t I, Tantei-kun?”

Conan nods. “Your father. Pandora. Immortality. Which, I suppose you could say you gained.”

KID shakes his head slightly. “No, I don’t think that’s quite right… I’m more...undead, I think, than technically alive. And, right now…” he trails off, which of course piques Conan’s insatiable curiosity.

“What do you mean by  _ right now _ ?” he asks, which is apparently exactly what KID had intended.

KID stares off towards the moon, giving Conan only a profile view of his face. “...Annoyingly, demons without contracts only have access to about a tenth of their inherent power. I was wondering… No, I think we can come to some kind of...arrangement, can’t we, Tantei-kun? Something mutually beneficial, perhaps?”

Conan shrugs. He’s still not entirely convinced that KID is an actual demon, but his allies against the Black Organization aren’t so plentiful that he won’t accept another. “What did you have in mind?” he asks cautiously.

“I'll make you a deal, Tantei-kun. You help me take out the people who murdered my father - and me, I suppose - and I'll help you take down whoever did this to you. No souls attached.”

Conan replays KID’s proposition in his head, searching for any loopholes. There don’t appear to be any, which is presumably odd for a demon. “Fine. I’ll accept the deal.”

“Splendid!” KID claps his hands together. “Now for the sigil.”

“I’m sorry, the  _ what. _ ” Conan doesn’t remember hearing anything about a  _ sigil. _

“The sigil. It’s a symbol of our contract - it binds me to you. Through it, I have a general idea of your well-being and location, and you can call me to you and command me to do whatever it is you need me to do.” KID pauses, reordering his thoughts. “We need to figure out where it’s going to go. The more visible the place, the more powerful the contract will be. I’ll probably end up with mine in my eye, I think. I wear colored contacts in public anyway, so I doubt many people will notice the difference.”

“I don’t intend to use it,” Conan feels the need to point out.

“No one ever  _ intends _ to. All the same, wouldn’t you want it to be in a powerful place, just in case the need should arise?”

Conan rolls his eyes, but he can hear a quality to Kaitou’s voice that makes him bite back an acerebric retort, an incredibly faint hint of...is it…worry? 

A being calling himself a demon, worried? About  _ him? _

Conan acquiesces. “Fine. It can’t be too obvious, though. I’m still living with the Mouris, and I know a very observant scientist.”

The most minute fraction of tension disappears abruptly from KID’s frame, as if it had never existed. “I’ve heard about contractors using their eyes - that would, more than likely, be the strongest area.”

Conan shakes his head, still not quite believing that this is a thing that is happening. He’s  _ actually  _ making a deal with a demon. “No, that would be too noticeable. Even the kids would realize something was off if I suddenly started wearing colored contacts in addition to my glasses. And who would sell those to an apparent six year old anyway?”

“I know a few people,” KID offers nonchalantly, and Conan is again reminded that not only is he apparently a demon, he’s also a  _ thief _ . A nonviolent thief who always returns what he’s stolen, granted, but still. “But I acknowledge your point. I’m assuming that you skin - face, chest, hands, etc, are also non-options for similar reasons?”

Conan nods, relieved that KID’s taking his objections seriously.

“In that case - ” KID says, reclining casually against the wall, “ - there’s always the mouth. Your tongue would be best, of course, but that seems a tad... _ reckless _ , perhaps.”

Conan has to agree. He usually eats his meals with either Haibara or Ran, both of whom are notoriously nosy when it comes to his health. A sudden body modification doesn’t seem like the type of thing he would be able to keep hidden for long. Unless… “What about the  _ top _ of my mouth?” he asks.

KID frowns slightly. “The top?”

“The roof,” Conan clarifies, not that he really needs to.

KID mulls it over for a long moment. “I would think,” he says finally, “that would be about eighty percent.”

Conan shrugs. “Good enough for me. Unless you think the heel of my foot or something would be better?”

“Sixty percent,” KID says automatically.

Conan gives him a Look. “So, if you don’t have any other suggestions…?”

KID shakes his head.

“Then it’s decided. I accept the contract that is as follows: you will help me take down the organization that caused me to shrink, I will help you take down the organization that killed your father and turned you into a demon, and there will be no exchanging of souls. Agreed?”

KID nods, sharply, then takes a step forwards and sinks gracefully to his knees in an elegant bow. “As the young master wishes,” he says, and Conan barely has time to grimace at the phrase before swirling black tendrils seep out from underneath KID’s gloves deceptively slowly, then they’re headed straight for Conan’s head faster than he can dodge and then they touch the roof of his mouth and - 

The searing pain of the sigil being carved into his mouth is possibly worse than shrinking is, even the first time.

He opens his eyes only a few minutes later, most likely, and his head is being cushioned by KID’s cape. For some reason.

It does not help him figure out how the cape-hang-glider thing works.

“What happened, KID?” Conan asks, though he’s pretty sure he knows the answer already. He tongues delicately at the roof of his mouth, exploring the new juxtaposing texture of his mouth and the lines seared into his skin. It takes him a moment to place the design, but...

Of course it’s a pentagram.

“You may as well call me Kaitou, now that I’ve made you scream,” KID says lightly.

Conan snorts. “That sounds gross, Thief. Think about who you’re talking to.”

KID visibly rewinds the words in his head, then grimaces. It’s the most expressive Conan’s ever seen him. “You know what I mean, though.”

Conan rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever.”

Less than a week later, Conan and the kids are tied up in some warehouse’s creepy basement. Not only had Conan’s watch and shoes been removed, but one of the dozen criminals had decided that  _ he _ was clearly the most dangerous one so in addition to the ropes his hands and feet had been cuffed together. The kids are all passed out - or possibly drugged. And, anyway, there’s no way they can escape in time to warn the police about the bombs the group is planning on planting, even if the kids  _ were _ awake and not panicking.

Not without some ostensibly supernatural help, at least.

Conan sighs, bracing himself for an  _ I told you so _ . Then he traces the sigil on the top of his mouth, still sensitive from their application and sending faint pain signals to his brain, and mutters under his breath, “Kaitou, a little help here?”

KID appears almost instantaneously, blurs into existence like he’d been there the whole time, just out of focus. He’s forgone the bright white ‘shoot me’ suit in favor of a baseball cap and the type of dark clothes a stagehand might wear.  _ “Whatever happened to never using the contract?” _ he asks, his voice doing the weird thing again where it felt like he was simultaneously speaking directly into Conan’s mind and yet coming from everywhere in the room at once.

Conan jerks his head at the mostly unconscious kids around him. “Does it look like I have a  _ choice? _ ” he demands, not particularly in the mood for KID’s theatrics. “Get us out of here alive, would you?”

“You have to say ‘this is an order’ first.”

Conan stares at him incredulously. “That’s so stupid,” he finds himself saying, because panic apparently throws his verbal filter out the window.

KID looks like he agrees, but says nothing.

Conan sighs heavily, ignoring the twinge in his gut as he says, “Kaitou, this is an order: get the four of us out of here alive.”

A grin splits KID’s face, so wide it almost borders on grotesque. _ “As you wish, Tantei-kun. It's  _ ** _showtime_ ** _ .” _

Conan eyes his expression carefully and finds he needs to add, for the sake of his conscience, “And no killing people, if you can help it.”

KID sighs dramatically, face unchanging.  _ “Very well.”  _

Then his grin widens.  _ “I’ll even be a  _ ** _gentleman_ ** _ about it.” _

Conan sighs.

In a puff of smoke, Conan’s bindings vanish, and KID disappears from sight. Conan isn’t too worried, though. He’ll come back.

He’s proved right approximately ten seconds later when there’s a click from the other side of the door - the lock being undone. KID ducks his head in and waves, before stepping aside so that Conan can see the pile of groaning bodies. All twelve of them are tied up securely in different colors of duct tape. 

Conan is reluctantly impressed.

“...How did you even do that.”

_ “I’m simply...one  _ ** _hell _ ** _ of a thief.”  _ KID says, an enigmatic smile stretching wildly across his face. It’s clear that he’s been waiting for a chance to use that pun.

Conan rolls his eyes. “You aren’t funny, you know.”

It’s the beginning of a beautiful relationship.

**Author's Note:**

> this is late but w/e i got it done and it's still day 4 in Hawaii
> 
> let me know if there are any typos or weird things happening. no proofreading we yeet out fics into the abyss that is the internet at 5 am like true warriors and don't worry about the consequences until later.
> 
> title from I Miss You (Blink 182)


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